"You won't get her to go," Danny Coombs said to Mary Anne in a fit of excitement. "She's got herself planted; she's set."

"Shut up, Danny," Beth said good-naturedly, beginning a progression that formed into a Faure ballade. "Listen to this," she said to Tweany. "Ever heard it? It's one of my favorites."

"I've never heard it," Tweany said. "Is it one of yours?"

Beth created a great shower of musical sparks: a Chopin prelude, followed at once by the opening of the Liszt B-flat sonata. Tweany, caught in the wind blazing around him, stood fast and survived, even managing to smile as the piece ended.

"I love good music," he declared, and Mary Anne, embarrassed, looked away. "I wish I had more time for it."

"Do you know Schubert's 'Erlkonig'?" Beth asked, playing furiously. "How wonderfully you could render it."

Lifting his camera, Coombs snapped a shot of the two of them at the piano. Tweany seemed not even to notice; he continued breathing in the music, eyes shut now, hands clasped together before him. Laughing, Coombs popped the exhausted bulb onto the floor and fitted in a fresh one from the leather pouch at his waist.

"Jesus," he said to Nitz, "he's completely left us."

"He does that," Nitz said, standing by Mary Anne, his hand on her shoulder. The friendly pressure made her feel a little better, but not much. "I'm afraid that's his way."

Suddenly Beth leaped from the piano. In ecstasy she seized Lemming by the hand and dragged him to his feet. "You too," she cried in his astonished ear. "All of us; join in!"

Gratified to find himself noticed, Lemming began playing wildly. Beth hurried back to the piano and struck up the opening chords of a Chopin "Polonaise." Lemming, over-powered, danced around the room; throwing his guitar onto the couch, he jumped high in the air, whacked the ceiling with the palms of his hands, descended, caught hold of Mary Anne, and spun her about. At the piano, rocking back and forth, Tweany roared out the lyrics:

"... Til the end of time ..."

Miserable and ashamed, Mary Anne struggled out of Lemining's embrace. She reached the safety of the corner and again stood beside Paul Nitz, collecting herself and smoothing down her coat.

"They're nuts," Nitz said. "They're hopped in another dimension."

Giggling, Coombs crept past them with his camera and stole a covert shot of Beth's emotion-contorted face. The dead bulb disappeared under Tweany's foot; Coombs crept on, past the Negro, over to the spot where Lemming was sprinting through his dance. Again a flash of light blinded them all; when Mary Anne could see again she found Coombs climbing up onto the piano to photograph the group from above.

"God," she said, shivering. "There's something wrong with him.

Nitz, withdrawn and bitter, said: "This is bad stuff, Mary. I should take you home. You don't deserve it."

"No," she said. "I'm not going."

"Why not? What do you want here?" His gaunt frame trembled; nauseated, he bent his head. "Him, still?"

"It's not his fault."

"You never give up, do you?" Nitz's voice cracked apart and he swallowed creakily. "I can't stand any more of this jumping; I'm leaving."

"Don't," Mary Anne said quickly. "Please, Paul, don't leave."

"Christ," Nitz implored, "I'm sick." He handed her his glass and, crouching over, hobbled out of the room and down the hall. Coombs, like some bony spider, gleefully took a picture of him as he passed.

"Look at me!" Lemming shouted, waving his arms and panting for breath. "What am I? Tell me what I am!"

Beth began to play "Poor Butterfly."

"No!" Lemming shrieked. "You're wrong!" He threw himself onto the floor and rolled under the piano; only his twitching legs were visible. "What am I now?"

Scuttling from the corner, Coombs squatted down and took a photograph of him. Eyes distorted, Coombs popped dead bulbs from his camera and fumbled new ones from his pouch. His skin had turned from white to a mottled red; his hair, disarranged and shiny, oozed down his temples.

Feeling ill herself, Mary Anne retreated into the kitchen, her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the noise. But it forced itself through the walls and floor; transmitted as vibration, it hammered around her. She could hear Nitz being sick in the bathroom, a tearing sound as if his body were being dragged apart.

Poor Nitz, she thought. Uncovering her ears, she stood listening to his agony and wondering what she could do. Nothing, apparently. And he was suffering for her, too. Behind her, in the living room, the delirium went on; Lemming appeared in the doorway, his face flooded with joy, held out his arms to her, and then vanished. The bull rumble of Carleton Tweany never abated, rising and falling, but contained within the frenzy of the little old piano.

To her, the sound of the piano was a friendly and familiar noise gone wrong. Sometimes, sitting alone in the apartment waiting for Tweany to appear-he seldom did-she had pecked out a few weak themes, jukebox melodies from her meager years. Now, the din of the piano was terrific; played by professionals, the racket grew in volume until the cups and plates in the cupboard above her vibrated.

At the moment they were playing "John Henry." Tweany was going into a routine: he stood beating his hands on the piano, eyes shut, head thrown back, body agitated with ecstasy. Coombs, sneaking around, took a picture of him and then one of Lemming, who was huddled over Beth, reaching past her to join with her on the keys of the piano. Four hands pounding ... the enormous passion shook the house.

"Up!" Coombs's voice sounded in her ear. Startled, Mary Anne opened her eyes to find him leering at her from the doorway; he was trying to take her picture. She grabbed a plate from the drainboard and hurled it at him; the plate burst against the wall above his head. He blinked and withdrew.

Shaking, she buried her face in her hands and took a labored breath. Now she wished she had gone; she shouldn't have stayed. In the living room, Lemming had swept Beth up from the piano; the two of them were leaping about the room, chanting meaninglessly, incoherent in their abandon. For Tweany it was still "John Henry"; the piano had ceased but he roared on. Around and around went the dancing couple; halting, Beth tore off her shoes, kicked them out of the way, and hurried on. Mary Anne closed her eyes and leaned wearily against the sink.

She was there, rubbing her eyes and trying to last, when she heard the crash in the bathroom.

Fully awake, she jumped randomly forward and stood in the center of the kitchen, listening, trying to hear above the din. There was no further sound; the bathroom, at the end of the hall, was silent. With a gasp of intuition she ran to the closed door, seized the knob, and rattled it. The bathroom door was locked.

"Paul!" she called.

There was no response. She kicked at the door with her toe; the sound echoed back to her, but still there was nothing from inside. Letting go of the knob, she turned and raced up the hallway to the living room.

"Tweany, for God's sake," she grated, catching hold of him as he stood leaning happily on the piano. No one paid any attention. Coombs was reloading his camera, his face blank with excitement; Lemming and Beth had whirled their way over to the corner and Lemming was now pushing her away and grabbing up his guitar.

Beating on Tweany's unresponsive shoulder, Mary Anne screamed: "Something's happened to Paul Nitz! He's killed himself!" Tweany stirred a little under the pressure of her fists; she caught hold of his shirt and tugged at him. "Tweany!" she wailed. "Help me!"

Gradually, with massive reluctance, Tweany awoke from his trance. "What?" he mumbled, blinking and focusing. "Where? The bathroom?"

Then she was scampering back down the hall; behind her Tweany strode along, collecting his wits. The door was still locked. She stepped aside as Tweany reached for the knob, turned it, and then hammered.